Murder in the Reading Room

by Ellery Adams

  Looking resigned, Archie said, “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass Sam. I thought he could tell you this story himself, but I realize that this isn’t the time to be sensitive.”

  Jane waved for him to continue.

  “Sam and I attended a boarding school for troubled boys. In other words, for boys who’d been arrested, gotten involved with drugs or alcohol, or had other behavioral issues. Mine was fighting. I’d been kicked out of two schools before my parents sent me to Rollingwood. One of the school’s behavioral modifications was having students learn to take care of various animals. Sam and I both fell in love with the horses.”

  Jane had never known that Sam had attended Rollingwood, but she understood why he might not talk about having been enrolled at a school for troubled boys.

  “Have you two kept in touch since you were in school together?”

  Archie shrugged. “The occasional email and Christmas card, which is probably why Mr. Pizzolato ended up on Ajax. I think Sam mistook him for me. I haven’t actually connected with Sam since coming to Storyton. I want to find out if he recognizes me. That’s why I wanted to see him in person.”

  “I’ll drive you to Hilltop,” said Jane. “Meet me in front of the garages in fifteen minutes. No one should see us leave. After all, you’re supposed to be at a mock peace conference.”

  Instead of taking one of Storyton Hall’s vintage Roll-Royce sedans, Jane chose the same pickup truck she and Lachlan had driven to Asheville. The road to Hilltop was riddled with potholes, and Jane didn’t think Sterling would appreciate her damaging the undercarriage of a Phantom or throwing off the alignment of a Silver Cloud.

  As soon as Archie was in the truck, Jane repeated the question she’d asked him in the conference room. Only this time, she rephrased it. “Why would someone want you dead because you’re a Fin? And why you over one of my men?”

  Archie looked out the window. “Butterworth doesn’t want me to tell you my story. We had a big argument over the subject.” He shot a quick glance at Jane. “I’ve heard about you my whole life, Ms. Steward. You’re the apple of my cousin’s eye. I know he rarely shows emotion. But when he talks about you, there’s music in his voice.”

  Though Jane was deeply touched, she didn’t want to discuss her relationship with Butterworth. “That’s nice of you to say, but—”

  “I’m not trying to avoid your original question,” Archie interrupted. “I’m sharing this because I think your Fins are protective to a fault. They may see themselves as father figures, but as your protectors, they should be completely transparent.” He turned to Jane. “Do you think they are?”

  Jane frowned. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “You’re not the only Guardian. Just as your family were descendants of the original Templars and vowed to preserve knowledge, other families have made the same vow. There’s only a handful left in the world, but they exist.”

  “Like your former employer?” Jane asked. “Why wasn’t I told about these other Guardians? We should all be working together—helping each other. This secrecy is ridiculous.”

  Archie was quiet for a long moment. Reluctantly, he said, “The others do talk. In fact, they have an annual meeting. It’s held at a different house each year.”

  Jane was floored. “I’d give a kidney to be invited! Why wasn’t I?”

  “Your exclusion stems from the guilt my uncle and Mr. Sinclair feel over your parents’ death.”

  “My parents weren’t even in this country when they died. I’ve combed through all the documents relating to their death. That plane crash was an accident.”

  Archie nodded. “Even so, my uncle and Mr. Sinclair believe that they’d failed your parents. I was just a kid when it happened, but I remember how my uncle changed. He was always serious, but he could laugh and tell jokes on occasion. After the accident, I think he stopped smiling altogether. His whole existence became focused on protecting you.”

  “But Uncle Aloysius was the Guardian at the time. Not me.”

  “You were groomed to take the mantle. And when you showed up at Storyton Hall, pregnant and newly widowed, Butterworth and the other Fins vowed to keep you safe.”

  Jane felt her anger rising. “By keeping secrets from me?”

  “They acted out of fear. And out of love,” Archie said. “They might have told you these things eventually, but when you expressed a desire to share Storyton Hall’s collection with the world, they hesitated. Your Fins don’t see eye to eye over this issue. Mr. Sinclair supports you. My cousin doesn’t.”

  Jane turned off the main road and began to climb the winding lane to Hilltop Stables. “I talked my great-uncle into putting a single book on display. Because of that decision, a man died, and my sons were abducted. I’d like to be angry with Butterworth, but he was right. Displaying our treasures is dangerous.”

  “Does that mean that you’ll keep them a secret forever?” Archie sounded disappointed.

  “Do you know what I’d like?” Jane’s voice was tight with emotion. “I’d like to give away the whole collection. To a museum. Or a university. What we have is amazing. Astounding. I love spending time in the secret library. I will never tire of looking at unpublished plays, alternate versions of famous novels, scandalous poetry, and political pamphlets. No one else can experience these wonders. Which is a crime. They belong to all readers.”

  Archie held up his hands. “I completely agree with you. So did my Guardian. He also wanted to donate his collection. After doing some research, he realized that most of his materials would end up sealed away in a subterranean vault. Do you know how much of the Library of Congress’s collection is available for public view? They have 164 million items.”

  “It doesn’t matter, because even if people can’t hold a book in their hands, the contents have been digitized,” Jane said. “The Library of Congress is a perfect example. Their treasures are accessible through digitization. They belong to everyone. That’s what I want. For our collection to belong to everyone. Books were written to be read. Stories were created to be shared.”

  The truck crested the final rise, and Hilltop Stables came into view. Jane knew that she had to shift her focus, but it was incredibly hard after all she’d just learned.

  Think of the man known as Mr. Pizza to his students. He deserves your full attention. He deserves justice.

  Jane got out of the truck and hailed one of Sam’s employees, an African American man named Deacon.

  Deacon, who was in his mid-sixties and had close-cropped black hair threaded with gray, was leading a horse with a gleaming chestnut coat toward a vacant stall. Jane waited until the horse was settled inside before approaching Deacon.

  “Ms. Steward! You here for a ride?” He gestured at the surrounding woods. “It’s a beautiful day for it.”

  “It sure is, but I have a surprise for Sam. This is a longtime friend of his.” She introduced Deacon to Archie.

  Deacon warned Archie that his hands smelled like Jasmine—the horse, not the flower. Archie laughed and said, “Barnyard scent is my favorite perfume.”

  The remark won Deacon over. He and Archie chatted about Jasmine as Deacon led them toward the log cabin that served as Sam’s office.

  “Come back when you have more time,” Deacon said to Jane as she entered the cabin. “And bring this fellow along.” He pointed at Archie. “I bet he’d take to Jasmine like a duck to water.”

  Deacon walked away, whistling as he went.

  Jane envied his contentment.

  “You should hear him sing,” said Sam from behind his desk. “The horses love his voice.”

  Sam was good looking in an all-American way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had brown hair streaked with blond. His eyes were a brilliant blue, and he had a dimpled chin. He’d been smitten with Eloise for as long as Jane could remember. He’d finally stopped flirting with Eloise when he realized that her heart belonged to Landon Lachlan.

  Sam greeted Jane before tu
rning to Archie.

  “Archie?” he asked, clearly confused.

  “In the flesh.” Archie’s face broke into a wide grin. “With a little less hair than when we last saw each other.”

  Sam got to his feet. He tried to smile but couldn’t. “Wait. At Storyton Hall . . . I met this guy. I thought he was you. He . . . he said that he was you.”

  “When did this man introduce himself as Archie?” Jane asked.

  “At the makeshift paddock,” said Sam, his eyes locked on Archie. “You emailed that photo from Yellowstone Park, remember? So I thought I knew what you looked like. Oh man, I feel like a total idiot.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sammie. That guy could have been my twin.” Archie moved forward and held out his hand. “It’s great to see you. It’s been way too long.”

  Sam came around from behind his desk, and the two men embraced.

  Though Jane found the demonstration of affection heartwarming, she had to speak before they started reminiscing and forgot about her. “Sam? Did the other man say that his name was Archie Berry?”

  “Now that you mention it, no. He never told me his name.” Sam glanced at Archie. “I thought it was you, so I gave him a big bro hug—like I did just now—and said how awesome it was to see him. I told him that we’d catch up after the reenactment and that he’d be riding Ajax. I said that Ajax was like Titan, a horse we rode back in school. The guy made a comment about Titan being a handful, and we both laughed.”

  “At least my doppelgänger knew how to ride,” said Archie.

  “Ajax isn’t for beginners. That’s for sure.”

  Sam didn’t see Archie’s doppelganger again. At some point during the battle, Ajax was caught by Duncan Hogg of the Pickled Pig Market and returned to the makeshift paddock.

  “I was shocked when I saw Duncan leading Ajax,” Sam said, looking at Archie. “I didn’t think you’d leave a horse alone in the middle of all that noise and chaos. In fact, I wondered if you’d been hurt. After all the horses were back here, I called Storyton Hall and Mr. Butterworth said that you were fine. I figured I’d ask you what happened at the Victory party.”

  Jane hated to tell Sam the sad fate of Archie’s double, but she had no choice. “The man who rode Ajax was a teacher from Tennessee. He was injured during the reenactment. He received a fatal head wound. I’m sorry to tell you this, Sam, but he died on the battlefield.”

  “That’s awful! He seemed like a really nice guy.” Suddenly, Sam’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh my god, Ajax threw him. Is that what killed him?”

  “No, no.” Jane said. “Mr. Pizzolato struck his head on something hard. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and the blow injured his brain. It wasn’t Ajax’s fault. Or yours.”

  Seeing that Sam was clearly distressed, Archie asked Jane if he could stay at Hilltop Stables for a little longer.

  “Of course,” Jane said. After thanking Sam for his help, she got in the pickup and headed back down the mountain. She’d barely parked the truck behind the garages when Sterling came out to the lot to meet her.

  “Miss Jane, you’d better come with me.”

  Instantly alarmed, Jane demanded, “What is it?”

  “I have something to show you. It’s in my lab.”

  As she followed Sterling, Jane tried to suppress a strong feeling of foreboding.

  In the lab, a jagged rock about the size of football sat on the counter. It was tawny in color, but Jane could see a darker splotch on one end. This russet-colored stain could be only one thing: blood.

  “Mr. Lachlan brought this to me a few minutes ago,” said Sterling. “We wanted you to see it, though we’ll have to call the sheriff before we can know for sure that the blood is a match to Mr. Pizzolato’s.”

  “Where was this found?”

  “In the woods near the trench—exactly where you suggested we look.”

  Jane stared at the rock. “Is this a murder weapon?”

  Sterling followed her glance. “It seems very unlikely that someone would trip, smash his head against a rock, and later stumble into a trench. Unlikely, but not impossible.”

  “We need to find out who that German soldier was—the one avoiding the camera. Maybe he saw Mr. Pizzolato going into the woods.” She pointed at Sterling’s phone. “You’d better call the sheriff. He’ll want to see where Lachlan found this. I’m going to search for the German soldier I couldn’t identify. I’m tired of questions without answers.”

  “The remembrance lunch started a few minutes ago. All the reenactment participants should be in the Madame Bovary Dining Room.”

  Jane was already moving toward the door when she said, “Which means a killer might be there too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Great War Memorial Luncheon was to be a solemn affair. It would begin with prayer followed by a moment of silent reflection. When this was over, Clarence Kelley, Michael Murphy, and Archie Banks would discuss Virginia’s role in the war. While they spoke, the names of Virginians killed in action or by disease would appear on a large projector screen at the far end of the room.

  When Jane popped her head in the Madame Bovary Dining Room, the waitstaff was serving the soup course.

  “One hundred thousand men from the Old Dominion served in this war,” Clarence said from his position behind a lectern. “Nearly four thousand died during the conflict.”

  Michael pointed at the image on a second projector screen. It was of a group of African Americans in uniform, posing in front of a row of tents. “Black Virginians made up thirty-nine percent of the draftees. Though they fought as bravely as any man, they returned home to the same inequality. We’d like to honor their memories now.”

  It was Archie’s turn to speak next. “Most of the wartime organizations in Virginia were run by women. These women’s groups raised funds to benefit soldiers and the Red Cross. The Knitting for Victory auction taking place after our meal will feature practical pieces, like those the ladies on the home front would have shipped to the soldiers, to items for the family, to unique pieces of fabric art donated by artists across the country. All proceeds will benefit the Great War Historical Society.”

  Clarence held up a striped scarf made of cornflower blue and sapphire yarn. “The knitting auction was my wife’s idea, and I’d like to thank her for her hard work. Isabel, would you stand?”

  A beaming Isabel received a round of applause. Clarence momentarily abandoned the lectern to drape the scarf around his wife’s neck. After quickly kissing her cheek, he returned to his place.

  As the BackStory officers continued to share interesting facts and photographs with the other historians, the names of those lost in the war steadily scrolled on the screen behind them. Jane hoped that each name was read by at least one person in the room. When her gaze landed on the name of a fallen soldier, she whispered, “Thomas V. Beale. Thank you for your service.”

  Clarence started talking about war as an industry, and Jane decided to take the opportunity to grab a bite to eat in the kitchens. She wanted to return in time for the auction and, if possible, bid on a few items. After all, Christmas was only a few months away.

  Thoughts of Christmas gave her pause. What would it be like to have William here at Christmastime? If his memory didn’t return, Jane would need to make some major decisions about his future. He’d need employment and a place to live.

  Standing under a ball of mistletoe will be much more complicated, she thought.

  “You’re miles away,” said Mrs. Hubbard, coming upon Jane staring at an untouched bowl of butternut squash bisque. “Is everything all right?”

  Since Jane couldn’t tell the beloved head cook about William or Edwin, she told her about the unexpected casualty during yesterday’s reenactment.

  “That’s awful!” Mrs. Hubbard exclaimed. Despite the gleam in her eyes, which betrayed how thrilled she was to hear the gossip-worthy news, she was still genuinely sorry.

  “The other historians don’t know yet. They’ll be informed after
the luncheon,” Jane said.

  In the face of any tragedy, Mrs. Hubbard’s natural inclination was to prepare food.

  “That soup won’t see you through,” she chided, disappearing into the larger of the two kitchens. She returned with a plate of roast chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, and asparagus.

  Jane thanked Mrs. Hubbard and ate half of the food. She covered the rest in plastic wrap to finish tomorrow and returned to the Madame Bovary just as the first auction item appeared on the screen.

  “Forgive my lack of auctioneering skills and please raise your bid cards high so that my two spotters can see them,” Clarence was saying when Jane entered. “If there are no questions, then let’s spend some money!”

  The first item was a women’s cardigan with cranberry and cream color blocking. The bidding was intense right from the get-go. After several items were fought over tooth and nail, it became obvious that a friendly rivalry existed between some of the historians.

  When a gentleman outbid his tablemate to win a multicolored alpaca cowl, another man shouted, “Go, Yalie!”

  “Another lap blanket?” someone taunted when a bidder near the back of his room won a chunky afghan done in shades of gray. “You Vardians sure do like to lie around!”

  The man who’d won the afghan grinned broadly and said, “Yes, sir. Harvard men are happy to support the cause. Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is, Big Red!”

  Big Red rose to the challenge and bid top dollar for the next item, a handsome Icelandic style wool sweater in beige with thin red stripes.

  Jane decided not to interfere with the competition between the academics. She could buy similar items from La Grande Dame, supporting her friend and a local business at the same time.

  The next lot elicited a roar of laughter. It was a pink sweater with a hood and a pair of bunny ears. To Jane’s surprise, the historians bid more aggressively for the bunny sweater, the tacky Christmas vest, the shawl with green alien heads, the brown and mustard beach shorts, and the octopus hat with tentacles, than they’d bid on any of the previous items.